Dancing with the Dragon

Chapter 10

At the first hint of daylight on the horizon, the USSJohn S. McCain, an Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer, slowly closed on the port side of the Chinese-flagged cargo ship Chiang Hai-ch'eng. An SH-60B Seahawk LAMPS Mark III helicopter rose from the aft helo deck of Big Bad John and banked into a shallow 360-degree turn to the right before taking up station on the port side of the destroyer.

Slightly astern of McCain and on the starboard side of the rust-covered Chinese vessel, the USS Vandergrzft, an Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided missile frigate, launched one of its SH-60Bs. The Seahawk helos provided all-weather capability for the detection and interdiction of surface ships and submarines. For close encounters of the worst kind, the helicopters were equipped with Mark-46/50 torpedoes, Hellfire and Penguin air-to-surface missiles, and .50-caliber machine guns.

Two Kitty Hawk-based F-14 Tomcats from the famous Black Nights of VF-154 loitered overhead the Chiang Hai-ch'eng at five thousand feet. Above the sleek fighter planes, two VFA-27 Royal Maces F/A-18 Hornets orbited at seven thousand feet. The four aircraft had refueled from a Marine Corps KC-130 Hercules prior to taking up station over the suspicious cargo ship.

On the bridge of McCain, Comdr. Antonio Lavancia raised his binoculars and carefully studied the Chinese ship. Off to the side, Lieutenant Erik Pomeroy, the ship's damage-control officer, quietly cleared his throat.

"What is it?" Lavancia asked without taking his eyes off the cargo ship.

A stickler for regulations and minutiae, Pomeroy stepped forward to address his commanding officer. "Sir, according to the Convention of the High Seas adopted at Geneva, except where acts of interference are derived from powers conferred by treaty, a warship which encounters a foreign merchant ship on the high seas is not justified in boarding her unless there is reasonable ground for—"

"Erik," Lavancia interrupted, "I am fully aware of the rules of international law relating to boarding vessels on the high seas."

Tall and stooped, Pomeroy started to speak, then decided against it when he saw the muscles in Lavancia's neck and face beginning to tighten.

"Our orders are unambiguous. We have been directed to request permission to board the ship. That, Mr. Pomeroy, is not a violation of international law. If we are denied permission, that will be the end of our responsibility. No shots across the bow, no further action required, no broken laws."

"Yes, sir," Pomeroy said, and stepped back.

Lavancia felt a twinge of guilt. Ill suited for a career in the military, Erik Bretton Pomeroy was the only son of a highly respected retired navy captain. A graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, albeit near the bottom of his class, Pomeroy was expected to continue the family tradition. Alas, due primarily to Pomeroy's lack of ad rem reasoning power, the tradition was destined to become a memory at the conclusion of his current sea-duty obligation.

After many attempts to contact the Chiang Hai-ch'eng, the ship's master finally responded to the request to stop for consensual boarding. The Chinese captain was pleasant but made it very clear that he could not stop his vessel without permission from his parent company.

When asked about the name and address of the company, the master replied, "Wang Zhaoxing Limited, based in Hong Kong."

Commander Lavancia immediately transmitted the information to Washington, D. C. While McCain and Vandegrift continued to follow the Chinese ship, U.S. State Department officials attempted to contact its parent company. After twelve hours of delays, and with reluctant assistance from Chinese government officials, the facts finally emerged. Wang Zhaoxing Limited did not exist, not in Hong Kong or any other Chinese city or province.

Nestled in Maryland's Catoctin Mountain Park, the presidential retreat was established in 1942 by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who named it Shangri-La. President Dwight David "Ike" Eisenhower renamed the mountain hideaway Camp David after his grandson.

The retreat, a half-hour helicopter ride from the White House, included ten comfortable cabins, a dining lodge, a movie auditorium, two bowling lanes, clay tennis courts, horse stables, a trout stream, two swimming pools, and a one-hole golf course.

The hideaway afforded a solitary atmosphere where no reporters were allowed. Only the first family, cabinet members, and a select group of invited guests and foreign dignitaries had ever been allowed at the retreat. Camp David's attraction was casual attire, simple cuisine, and straight talk. President Cord Macklin preferred the solitude when dealing with difficult situations.

Wearing a golf shirt with the logo of his alma mater, a navy-blue sweater, pleated khaki slacks, and shined cordovan loafers, the commander in chief walked into the dining lodge and entered the president's private office. Inside, Macklin's attractive wife, Maria Eden-Macklin, was having coffee while she waited for him.

"Good morning," she said with a warm smile.

"And good morning to you." He gave her a light kiss on the cheek while she checked his busy schedule to make sure there were no obvious glitches.

He reached for a glass of tomato juice and glanced at the set of clocks on the wall. "Well, they should be here in a few minutes."

"They're on time."

Tall and trim, the chief executive looked the part of the consummate, highly confident Washington politician. Boisterous and stubborn-natured at times, Cord Macklin had an infectious smile, silver-gray hair, and deeply set blue eyes.

An air force F-105 Thunderchief pilot during the Vietnam War, he was a no-nonsense straight talker who did not tolerate laziness or indecisiveness. A graduate of the Air Force Academy, Macklin had played football there with his lifelong friend, air force general Les Chalmers, the current chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Hearing the familiar sound of a Marine VH-60 VIP helicopter, Macklin placed his copy of the President's Daily Brief on his desk. Considered to be the most expensive and least distributed newspaper in the world, the PDB had been personally delivered to Macklin at 0610 hours by a senior analyst from the CIA.

The brief was a thorough, up-to-the-minute summary of world events and the latest analysis of problematic areas and thorny global situations. The analyst and Macklin had discussed a number of plausible what-if scenarios, plotting what courses of action the White House might pursue if the events developed.

After finishing his juice the president and Maria rose and walked outside to greet their guests.

A retired foreign correspondent, the gracious first lady was an intelligent, shapely brunette a decade younger than her husband. At the tender age of eleven, Maria had traveled with her father to live in British East Africa. She had been schooled by a private tutor until returning to the United States to attend college.

Stately and friendly, self-disciplined to project the proper image of a first lady, Maria almost always displayed a sense of serenity. She and her husband worked well as a team. His aides and advisers notwithstanding, Cord Macklin relied heavily on Maria's instincts and common sense — traits missing in many beltway circles.

After a pleasant greeting, Macklin and the first lady escorted Hartwell Prost, Secretary of Defense Pete Adair, and Gen. Les Chalmers inside.

Although Chalmers and the president had gone their separate ways after Vietnam, they had remained close friends and often fished or hunted together when their busy schedules would allow. Still muscular and athletic, Chalmers was the embodiment of a four-star officer. He was an even-tempered man who had a reputation for being a mentor to less senior officers. The general had a wide forehead and thin lines etched down his cheeks. A slow smile added to his handsome features, not to mention the twinkling hazel eyes that squinted through narrow slits.

Surrounded by Secret Service agents, the group entered the dining lodge and then settled in Macklin's private office, which doubled as a conference room. Fresh coffee, orange juice, tomato juice, and warm pastries awaited the men and Maria while they made themselves comfortable for the early morning meeting.

A former Green Beret captain, Pete Adair had been born on a small farm in the Oklahoma Panhandle. Adair's boundless enthusiasm was contagious at the White House and at the Pentagon. His folksy personality was appealing to military personnel, but that wasn't all they liked about him; they considered him a man of integrity and honesty. He was extremely knowledgeable about military affairs, and they knew he fought hard to provide the very best in pay and equipment for the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines. He even pounded home the need to keep the U.S. Coast Guard on par with the other services, even though they were officially outside his area of responsibility.

"Well, gentlemen, what can you tell me about this Chinese cargo ship, the. " Macklin paused.

"Chiang Hai-ch'eng,"Hartwell Prost offered, then continued as he opened his briefcase and methodically spread papers before him on the table. "Mr. President, we've had some very interesting developments in the last few hours."

Macklin reached for his coffee. "As I've been told."

"The Chiang Hai-ch'eng departed from Long Beach en route to Fuzhou, People's Republic of China, on the same day we lost the F-18 Hornet from Abe Lincoln."

The president sat upright, almost spilling his coffee on his khaki slacks. "The same day? Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir," Prost said. "Seven hours and ten minutes prior to the incident — it's a matter of record."

"Do we know where it was when the other planes went down?"

"We aren't sure, but we know the Chiang Hai-ch 'engchanged destinations en route to Fuzhou and sailed to Niigata, Japan." Prost adjusted his new reading glasses. "Niigata, which is located at the mouth of the Shinano River, is the leading port on the Sea of Japan."

"When did it leave Niigata?"

"Late in the morning the same day the Japanese AWACS went down in the Sea of Japan atnight."

"Are you positive — absolutely positive?"

"Yes, sir. We have computer records from the port authority, tapes of radio conversations with the Chiang Hai-ch'eng, and more than a dozen eyewitnesses who watched the ship get under way."

"I'll be damned. What do we know about the Cobra Ball crash?"

"We have unimpeachable evidence that the Chinese cargo ship Xiamen Express left Singapore for Madras, India, four days prior to the downing of the Cobra Ball, Eagle Rock One-One."

"And?"

"The Xiamen Express arrived in Madras early in the afternoon on the day following the crash of Eagle Rock One-One."

"The speed-distance equation," General Chalmers quietly interjected, "suggests that the Chinese ship would have been in the immediate vicinity of the Cobra Ball when the flight crew reported the suspicious object."

"What about our B-2 bomber?"

"Our people are working on it," Prost said. "The tanker crew is being debriefed as we speak."

"Any possible Chinese connection — anything suspicious about the crash of the bomber?"

"We don't know at this point. However, we believe that another Chinese ship may have been involved in the F/A-18 crash in the Strait of Taiwan, and the Chinese airliner that—"

"China Xinjiang Airlines," Adair volunteered.

"— that crashed into the Yellow Sea near Lianyungang, China. The Deng ju-shan, a new state-of-the-art freighter, sailed from Ho Chi Minh City to Qingdao, about a week before the F/A-18 went down. It would have been in the general area of the Kitty Hawk battle group at the time the Hornet was lost, and it arrived in Qingdao the day after the Chinese airliner went down seventy-five miles south of Qingdao."

The president hunched his shoulders and absently set his coffee cup on his desk. "Let me make sure I understand what you're telling me."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you saying we can forget about these mysterious sightings and concentrate on the Chinese ships?"

"At this stage I wouldn't rule out anything. The information we have was generated by analyzing thousands of voyage itineraries of ships from all nations and from every region on the planet. It looks very suspicious to me, but we can't be certain."

Macklin sat back and rubbed his chin. "But the preponderance of evidence points toward the Chinese, right?"

"On the surface, yes. However, we could be chasing coincidences, anomalies, the supernatural, who knows?"

The president turned his attention to Adair and Chalmers. "What about our military options? What's the easiest and fastest way to find out for sure what's on those Chinese cargo ships?"

General Chalmers deferred to the secretary of defense.

"There isn't any easy way," Pete Adair admitted. "Considering the growing tension between Beijing and Taipei, and Beijing and Washington, we're on the verge of open hostilities in the Taiwan. Strait, not to mention the fact that the Red Chinese are the gatekeepers of the Panama Canal."

Adair paused and faced the president. "The last thing we want to do is forcefully stop and search a Chinese ship in international waters."

"What about the CIA?" Macklin asked. "Couldn't we somehow manage to infiltrate, to smuggle someone on board one of those ships while it's in port? Is that a possibility?"

Everyone turned to Prost. "Gentlemen, from what our operatives are telling us, these particular ships are very heavily guarded."

"Which makes my point," the president said.

Prost continued. "According to my sources, the ships are carrying their own specialized security teams. We wouldn't stand a chance of boarding one, unless we came up with an invisible agent."

Irritated and frustrated, Macklin waved his hand. "Let's go back to the Chinese airliner. Why would they down one of their own planes on a domestic flight? It doesn't make sense to me."

Hartwell was about to offer a hypothetical opinion when an aide stepped into the office.

"Mr. Prost, you have an urgent call on the secure line."

After an early breakfast with Major General Grunewald and Lieutenant Colonel Warrington, Jackie and Scott thanked the colonel for his hospitality and returned with the general to his office. They retrieved their luggage, flight gear, and helmets, and then headed to the flight line to load their belongings into one of Greg O'-Donnell's Learjet 35As.

While Scott completed a detailed preflight of the exterior of the jet, Jackie entered the cockpit and settled into the right seat. A squad of four SEALs boarded next, followed by Scott.

A few minutes later the jet was wheels-in-the-well and climbing to its assigned altitude. Out of Flight Level 270, Lear N960BL was cleared direct to Centennial Airport, Denver, Colorado. The well-equipped Learjet was a delight to fly, and Scott felt very comfortable in the snug cockpit.

After ascending to Flight Level 350, Scott leveled the jet and Jackie assumed control of the Lear. Scott briefed MCPO D. R. Slocum, the leader of the SEALs. Together comprising one-half of a normal eight-man squad, each SEAL was armed with either a Heckler & Koch P9S 9mm automatic pistol or a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. The latter provided an immediate stopping punch to a determined assailant.

Six Heckler & Koch MP5 compact submachine guns were on board for additional firepower in close-quarters combat. Two of the submachine guns were for Scott and Jackie. As a last resort, the SEALs had a handheld M60 machine gun for platoon-level fire support.

Scott gave Master Chief Slocum an overview of their situation, and then described the ambush and gunfight in Pensacola and the bomb-induced crash landing at Cherry Point. While Dalton and Slocum had coffee and discussed security details for the Lear, Jackie requested Flight Level 390 and then eased the corporate jet up to its cruising altitude. Once the power was set and everything was stabilized, she used the cockpit-mounted Global Flitefone to call Merrick Hamilton at her hotel to reaffirm their morning meeting in Denver.

Passing north of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, ackie looked to her right and studied the bustling city of St. Louis. The stainless steel Gateway Arch was easily visible in the bright morning sunshine. She responded to a radio frequency change for Kansas City Center and then turned to Scott when Slocum returned to his seat.

"You haven't said much about the refresher course in that — what do you call it — a pogo jet?" she teased.

He quietly laughed. "There isn't much to say."

"Did everything go okay?"

"It went great — no problem."

"Seriously."

"It's like riding a bicycle and all the other cliches that—"

"Except if you fall over in a Harrier, you're roasted in a giant fireball."

"Well," Scott said as he turned to her and peered over the top rim of his sunglasses, "you certainly have a way with words."

"Since I have to fly in the back, I'd like to know if you're comfortable in the front. Yes or no?"

"Very comfortable. How about you?"

"Truthfully?"

"Of course."

"It scared the hell out of me."

"If it's any consolation, I felt the same way my first couple of flights in it — the intimidation factor."

"The refresher flights?"

"No." Scott smiled broadly. "When I first transitioned into the beast, back in my other life."

When Hartwell Prost reentered the president's office, conversation ceased and all eyes turned to him. He calmly sat down and placed a sheet of paper on the table.

President Macklin turned to his most trusted adviser. "Bad news?"

"Actually, it's breaking news on two fronts."

"Let's have it."

"Our sources in China, both U.S. agents and our Chinese operatives, have irrefutable evidence that the China Xinjiang Airlines plane that went down in the Yellow Sea was full of political activists and prominent members of dissident groups."

Everyone in the room seemed to freeze momentarily. "Beijing's increasingly insecure leadership is taking a severe toll on all of the opposition groups and the individual critics of Liu Fan-ding's regime. Others out of favor include nine former leaders in the Chinese Democracy Party and more than a dozen members of the Falun Gong Buddhist spiritual movement. They died in the crash, along with many other human-rights critics. Our people in Beijing say the situation hasn't been this bad since Tiananmen Square."

"It may well be the beginning of a new crackdown," Pete Adair suggested. "Sounds like the Party could be returning to its old ways."

"He's right," Les Chalmers said. "As we know, the Chinese have no desire to think or act like Western society. They have long been governed by absolutist rule. Their contempt for Western contact and influence dates back to the nineteenth century."

Prost nodded in agreement.

Chalmers shifted in his chair. "If Liu Fan-ding is concernedparanoid — about the stability of his regime, he may have given the order to terminate the rapidly expanding free-enterprise system in China. We've already seen many Chinese entrepreneurs leave the country while it's still possible. They fear that at some point Liu Fan-ding will lump them together with the activists and dissidents."

Prost acknowledged the general. "True, and the historical record of China and her dictators doesn't indicate a yearning for a free-market society. What we're seeing may be a plan to end the enterprise experiment with a concerted effort to combine enforced political loyalty with military expansionism — always a recipe for disaster."

Prost scribbled a note to himself. The two pilots and the flight attendants were sacrificial lambs for the good of the masses.

The president had a question. "How can they be certain about the passengers aboard the Chinese airliner that crashed — their identities?"

"Many of the bodies were recovered and positively identified. Some of China's most notorious and vocal political dissidents and activists were on the airliner. A number of the recovered bodies were in handcuffs — the ones who had been in the laogai slave labor camps."

"What about the manifest?" Adair asked. "Were the passengers listed by their real names?"

"Every one of them. Beijing claims the political prisoners were being sent to a new government facility when the airliner was attacked by an unidentified weapon."

"Incredible," Adair said. "They're very creative."

Prost fixed his gaze on the president. "To make the accident scenario even more convincing to the general public, Beijing has repeatedly broadcast the tapes of the frantic pilots talking with the air traffic controllers."

Maria couldn't resist. "Hartwell, what do you think?"

"Quite frankly, this was a typical Chinese ruse to divert attention from their questionable activities."

"Their probable ties to the other crashes?" she suggested.

Prost nodded. "In one smooth operation, Beijing muddled their involvement in the mysterious-crashes question, and the powers that be eliminated some well-known voices of opposition. It's a chill wind of repression known as 'killing the chicken to scare the monkey.'"

Before anyone could react, Prost announced the second piece of breaking news. "On another subject, the FBI has discovered a secret skunk-works laboratory near San Clemente, California. The research facility has recently been abandoned, but Jim Ebersole thinks he has evidence that ties the Red Chinese directly to the laboratory and the people who worked there."

The president looked bewildered. "Chinese — what kind of lab?"

"According to Ebersole, they were working on a prototype high-energy laser weapon system."

"They? Whom are you talking about?"

"From what the FBI has discovered, the Chinese recruited seven of our best and brightest scientists and engineers, plus a Russian engineer. All of them but the Russian, Dr. Vasiliy Kalenkov, have been associated with Boeing or its airborne laser team of Lockheed Martin and TRW. In fact, their secret research laboratory is not far from the TRW Capistrano Test Site."

Hartwell slid his papers into his briefcase and closed it. "Two of the recruits had previously been involved in developing high-power microwave and laser-based weapons at the Air Force Research Laboratory's Directed Energy Directorate at the Eden Research Site."

The president slowly removed his glasses. "I assume these people are tied to the string of crashes?"

"It would appear so. Six of the treasonous recruits have died mysterious deaths in the past two weeks and the other two are missing."

Hearing the Black Hawk VIP helicopter come to life, Hartwell reached for his cap. "Sir, I must excuse myself. Ebersole is waiting to give me a thorough briefing at the FBI Crisis Center."

"Get back to me as soon as you can," Macklin said.

"Yes, sir. Mr. President, I think it would be prudent to have our secretary of state fly to Beijing ASAP and personally visit with President Liu Fan-ding. In my opinion, he's on the edge of the precipice, and I think Secretary Shannon needs to visit with him in person."

"That would add some leverage," Macklin said, and looked at the world map on the wall. "We have to make damn sure Liu Fan-ding and his cronies understand the consequences of their actions."

Pete Adair spoke in a clear voice. "The tougher we are on China, the more quickly they get into compliance."

"I know, but we have to be very careful. We're already spread thin with the goings on in the campaign on terrorism."

Prost picked up his briefcase. "Mr. President, it's also time to start discussing issues with Beijing about China's military buildup near the Panama Canal."

"Let me think about that," Macklin said, then turned to his close friend, General Chalmers. "It's time for a summit, Les. How fast can we get two aircraft carriers into the waters of Southeastern Asia?"

He cast his gaze down and then looked at the president. "It's going to take a while — I'll let you know in a few minutes."